


Smoked

by Sadistrix



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Other, Past Reaper | Gabriel Reyes/Jesse McCree, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:42:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22356610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sadistrix/pseuds/Sadistrix
Summary: In another life he’d let Jesse-fucking-McCree push their mouths together and fill his lungs full of smoke in full view of anyone who might have cared enough to be looking. Now his nanites fill the air with as thick a haze as Sombra’s smoke, agitated and uncertain with the reminder that he’s not the only ghost in the room.
Relationships: Reaper | Gabriel Reyes/Sombra | Olivia Colomar
Kudos: 4
Collections: Unofficial FFA Unanon Collection





	Smoked

"Don't tell me you've never done it, _boss_ ," Sombra says, a perfect echo of someone else on a stiflingly hot afternoon - boots dangling over the railing of the outpost, eyes knit tight despite the wide brim of his hat - not nearly cautious enough to keep up the charade that either of them hadn't wanted to be caught.

Reaper doesn't know how to react.

Confronted with the mockery, his first thought is to snatch the joint from Sombra's fingers and crush it beneath his boot, but something has him rooted in place - the dredged up, sun-soaked memory, the easy grin on her face -

He'd said he had better things to do, then. It feels sickening to repeat himself now.

"Come on, take a load off," she continues, right on track. She must have read his lips -chapped, and dry from the smoke, but less unpleasant than Gabe had expected when- "it wouldn't kill you to relax every once in a while."

"So you watched Blackwatch security tapes," Reaper grumbles, refusing to play along. "Your point?"

Sombra laughs, unashamed and undeterred. "Come take a hit, Gabe." She blows a thick plume of smoke in the direction of his mask and it takes on the purple glow of her room almost instantaneously. Reaper watches as it filters into the haze and tries to convince himself she's too useful to Talon to kill.

He's less furious than he should be. Wants, somewhere sad and sore and perverse, for Sombra to mimic a grin and say "c'mere," in her best attempt at the husky voice of someone else trying too hard to play it cool. Smoking it up in full view of one of the base’s cameras just so Reyes would have to come and tell him to knock it off. Wonders if her hand would be as hot and sweaty on the back of his neck. As heavy and insistent when she forced their lips together.

 _Pathetic_.

"You're overthinking it," she says before Reaper can settle on something appropriately cutting. Or begin to push down the tightness in his chest. He can hear both of them in his head and it hurts in a way that makes him want to give in - if only to the self-destructive impulse of chasing a temporary escape.

“C’mere. I’ll even take the edge off.” As he watches, Sombra takes another drag and motions with her fingers for him to lean in.

In another life he’d let Jesse-fucking-McCree push their mouths together and fill his lungs full of smoke in full view of anyone who might have cared enough to be looking. (No one cared what Blackwatch got up to in their spare time. Not yet).

Now his nanites fill the air with as thick a haze as Sombra’s smoke, agitated and uncertain with the reminder that he’s not the only ghost in the room. “Why,” he growls.

Sombra breathes out a fresh cloud of smoke and grins at him again. “Wanted to see your face,” she admits, the first she’s spoken her own words all night. She waves a hand, nails momentarily breaking up the haze into swirling eddies of smoke. “Have a little fun. I thought you’d enjoy pretending.”

“You thought wrong.”

Sombra shrugs. “Come up with a better excuse then.” The circuits on her hand glow bright for a moment, and Reaper’s mask disengages with unsettling ease. He lets it clatter to the floor rather than give her the satisfaction of grabbing for it.

Perhaps it’s because he wants to see if Sombra can keep up the charade. He melts into the claustrophobically thick air to reform beside her, close enough that not even the smoke could disguise what’s left of his face for something more palatable.

She breathes in another lungful and turns her face to his without hesitation.

“No more pretending,” Reaper warns, before he can tell if she’ll dare crib from other conversations he’d rather have long since laid to rest. Before she can invite him back to her room with a terrifying amount of sincerity, like they’re not already there.

Sombra lifts an eyebrow, gives an amused little shrug, and finally leans in to fit her mouth over his.

“I wouldn’t care, you know,” she says with the taste of her and the weed still thick, heady, on Reaper’s tongue, “if you ever wanted to.”


End file.
